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- Стр. 245/246
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There
was
no
reason
why
she
should
not
get
some
dramatist
to
write
her
a
play
on
the
subject
,
either
in
prose
or
in
short
lines
of
verse
with
rhymes
at
not
too
frequent
intervals
.
She
could
manage
that
,
and
effectively
.
It
was
a
good
idea
,
there
was
no
doubt
about
it
,
and
she
knew
the
clothes
she
would
wear
,
not
those
flowing
draperies
in
which
Sarah
swathed
herself
,
but
the
short
Greek
tunic
that
she
had
seen
on
a
bas
-
relief
when
she
went
to
the
British
Museum
with
Charles
.
"
How
funny
things
are
!
You
go
to
those
museums
and
galleries
and
think
what
a
damned
bore
they
are
and
then
,
when
you
least
expect
it
,
you
find
that
something
you
’
ve
seen
comes
in
useful
.
It
shows
art
and
all
that
isn
’
t
really
waste
of
time
.
"
Of
course
she
had
the
legs
for
a
tunic
,
but
could
one
be
tragic
in
one
?
This
she
thought
about
seriously
for
two
or
three
minutes
.
When
she
was
eating
out
her
heart
for
the
indifferent
Hippolytus
(
and
she
giggled
when
she
thought
of
Tom
,
in
his
Savile
Row
clothes
,
masquerading
as
a
young
Greek
hunter
)
could
she
really
get
her
effects
without
abundant
draperies
?
The
difficulty
excited
her
.
But
then
a
thought
crossed
her
mind
that
for
a
moment
dashed
her
spirits
.
"
It
’
s
all
very
well
,
but
where
are
the
dramatists
?
Sarah
had
her
Sardou
,
Duse
her
D
’
Annunzio
.
But
who
have
I
got
?
’
The
Queen
of
Scots
hath
a
bonnie
bairn
*
and
I
am
but
a
barren
stock
.
’
"
She
did
not
,
however
,
let
this
melancholy
reflection
disturb
her
serenity
for
long
.
Her
elation
was
indeed
such
that
she
felt
capable
of
creating
dramatists
from
the
vast
inane
as
Deucalion
created
men
from
the
stones
of
the
field
.
"
What
nonsense
that
was
that
Roger
talked
the
other
day
,
and
poor
Charles
,
who
seemed
to
take
it
seriously
.
He
’
s
a
silly
little
prig
,
that
’
s
all
.
"
She
indicated
a
gesture
towards
the
dance
room
.
The
lights
had
been
lowered
,
and
from
where
she
sat
it
looked
more
than
ever
like
a
scene
in
a
play
.
"
’
All
the
world
’
s
a
stage
,
and
all
the
men
and
women
merely
players
.
’
But
there
’
s
the
illusion
,
through
that
archway
;
it
’
s
we
,
the
actors
,
who
are
the
reality
.
That
’
s
the
answer
to
Roger
.
They
are
our
raw
material
.
We
are
the
meaning
of
their
lives
.
We
take
their
silly
little
emotions
and
turn
them
into
art
,
out
of
them
we
create
beauty
,
and
their
significance
is
that
they
form
the
audience
we
must
have
to
fulfil
ourselves
.
They
are
the
instruments
on
which
we
play
,
and
what
is
an
instrument
without
somebody
to
play
on
it
?
"
The
notion
exhilarated
her
,
and
for
a
moment
or
two
she
savoured
it
with
satisfaction
.
Her
brain
seemed
miraculously
lucid
.
"
Roger
says
we
don
’
t
exist
.
Why
,
it
’
s
only
we
who
do
exist
.
They
are
the
shadows
and
we
give
them
substance
.
We
are
the
symbols
of
all
this
confused
,
aimless
struggling
that
they
call
life
,
and
it
’
s
only
the
symbol
which
is
real
.
They
say
acting
is
only
make
-
believe
.
That
make
-
believe
is
the
only
reality
.
"
Thus
Julia
out
of
her
own
head
framed
anew
the
platonic
theory
of
ideas
.
It
filled
her
with
exultation
